


Past Sins and Specters

by jadrea



Category: Dynasty (TV 2017)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Family Drama, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Gun Violence, Homophobic Language, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Queer Themes, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Violence, episodic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadrea/pseuds/jadrea
Summary: 'A ghost is coming to visit. They'd better be ready.' A supposedly innocent bystander is thrown into the high-stakes glitz and glamour of the Carrington world, bringing with them secrets thought long-buried. (stretching canon of mid-season 2)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Family Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> CW for queer slurs

**ACT ONE**

"Every moment you struggle is only making this last." The voice was muffled by a hood, though the knife against Reid's back came through clear and sharp. "The truth will come out, and soon."

"I don't know what you're talking about, please, just let me go-"

"I'll let you go. You bring those rat bastards a message: A ghost is coming to visit. They'd better be ready. Now-" The owner of the knife and the voice turned Reid around so the two were face-to-face. Reid's eyes scanned frantically beneath the blindfold, seeing nothing but darkness. "You're our little truth-bringer, little _fairyboy_. Congratulations, it's a real honor. For you."

The blow to their cheek came from nowhere, and Reid reeled, nearly falling to the ground. They flung their hands up, attempting to ward off more blows, as a fist took advantage of the opening and sent the breath whooshing from their lungs.

"Ple-huff-ase!"

"I'm almost sorry you got wrapped up in this, Reid," the voice said, pulling them bodily back to their feet. "Almost. Though you've got your fair share of secrets, too, don't you? You're not _innocent_. Everybody's got a skeleton or two, propping them up."

The next blow came to their temple. Head spinning, Reid tried to stumble away. Feeling pavement beneath their feet, they blindly felt their way through the dark, guessing at the direction from which they'd come. They only made it a few feet before the hand caught their arm again, turned them around.

They heard an odd, almost squelching noise, heard it again, again, heard the blade clatter to the ground. Their left arm was twisted upwards, held in front of their eyes though the blindfold obscured their view.

"Remember: the ghost is coming."

The hand left their arm. A car engine started. It wasn't until a rush of air announced the vehicle's departure did Reid feel the pain in their gut. The ripping, stabbing pain, the pain that came with every breath, with every movement. They fell to their knees.

A few sprinkles of water hit the back of their neck. More rain followed. The sensation shook them back to consciousness, a hand weakly rising to their face to pull free the blindfold. Clutching the bandana in one fist, the light green fabric spattered with flecks of drying crimson, Reid tried to rise to their feet, only to fall back to one knee.

A hand, their left, went to their side. Came away red, bright even in the dim morning light.

Their eyes flicked drunkenly to the sky, saw the first streaks of sunlight come into the sky. Reflect in the still waters of a lake. The horizon obscured by a house through the trees. A house.

Lights were on. Half-crawling, stumbling on two feet when they could manage it, Reid dragged themselves through the trees.

Minutes? Hours, maybe. The light climbed higher and higher in the sky. Reid brushed a hand across their face to clear it, leaving streaks of blood and dirt.

The house, the house—they recited it in their head, struggling to stay present, struggling to reach it.

As they drew closer, they saw it was a two-story wooden building, heard the whinnying of horses. A farm?

Closer, closer. A window, on the ground floor. Curtains drawn, but lights behind. Illuminating a figure—two figures?

With the last of their strength, Reid struggling forward. They raised a hand to pound against the window, weak blows that barely tapped the glass.

"Help…" their voice came in a quiet wheeze. "Ple…"

Their legs gave way and they slid down to the ground in a heap. Grasping desperately, their fingers found the windowsill. Under their weight, it nearly gave way with an echoing crack.

From inside the house, a voice, shrill enough to be heard through glass, snapped, "What the hell was that?"

The curtain was ripped aside by a woman with mussed, bleach-blonde hair, her dress open to the waist. Over her shoulder, a tall, bearded man craned to see, "What is it?"

The woman stopped for a moment, wide eyes taking in the dirt- and blood-smeared figure on the outside of the glass. Then her lips opened in an ear-splitting shriek.

Reid lost their grip and collapsed to the ground, eyes staring blankly up into the canopy of trees.

The sky began to redden with the rising sun.

**ACT TWO**

The pain came first. Then eyes fluttered open. Ears were slowest to follow, voices muffled and distant.

A figure in a white coat leaned over them. It shined a penlight in their eyes, and they winced.

"Just relax and lay back, try not to speak." The figure turned to speak over its shoulder, "He doesn't appear to be concussed. Just disoriented."

"Thanks, doctor." Another figure took the doctor's place, peering curiously at the bed-ridden guest. His eyes narrowed. "What happened? Who are you?"

"How can he tell us that when he's not supposed to speak?" A woman at his side rolled her eyes. With bright pink lipstick and a matching pantsuit, she looked less like she was on a hospital visit and more like she was about to chair a board meeting. "Back off, Blake, give him some space."

"Well, no one else seems to be able to answer my questions. Unless this is one of your sick pranks."

"Oh, Daddy, none of my pranks are 'sick.' They're cruel at best."

"Where-" Reid tried to speak, found their throat tight and mouth dry. "Wh-" They tried to sit and fell back against the pillows with a gasp.

"Doc said not to move, I suggest you follow her advice." The man took a seat in a chair by the side of the bed. "We couldn't find any ID on you, no personal effects at all. Could you tell us who you are?"

They swallowed hard, wincing. "R-Reid Macintosh."

He sent a glance over his shoulder at the man by the door, dressed in a black suit and looking remarkably like an undertaker, save for the bright orange tie and pocket square. He nodded and slipped silently out the door.

"Well, Reid, you got lucky. You picked the right house to stumble to, we've got state-of-the-art medical equipment and the best staff in the country."

"H-house? I'm not at-at a hospital?"

The man and woman exchanged a quick look.

"We thought it would be best to keep you at the Manor," the latter explained. "The doctor said it would be dangerous to move you as you are. You're a guest here until you're well enough to travel."

The room looked enough like the inside of a hospital that Reid was almost convinced the two were lying. "Who are you people?"

"Blake Carrington. And my daughter, Fallon." The latter gave a charming, if a little icy, smile.

Reid pushed back against their pillows. "Oh, my god."

"I know," Fallon said, brushing hair back from her face, "Don't worry, it's overwhelming for everyone."

"I have to get out of here, I need-"

The Carringtons seemed to frown in unison. "You shouldn't be going anywhere, you were attacked. Do you remember? The stab wounds weren't fatal, but they're enough to keep you here for-"

"Please-" Reid's heart was racing, the monitor on the wall beeping with increasing urgency. "I don't know what you want, but, please, I didn't do anything, just let me go home. Please, I promise I won't tell anyone anything-"

"Anything about what?"

"Calm down, please-" Blake leaned forward, and Reid threw their arms over their face.

"Please don't hurt me!"

"We're not going to—what is that?" He took Reid's arm, pulling it closer to better see the ink. They tried to pull out of his grasp, but their struggles were too weak to do any good. "Where did you get this?"

"A tattoo?" Fallon said, "You can get those anywhere, Blake."

"Not this one." Blake Carrington's eyes cut daggers into Reid. "Still fresh. _Where did you get this?"_

"P-please, I don't know what's going on—he just-"

"He? Who?"

"I don't know who, he just grabbed me-"

"Don't lie to me!"

The doctor hurried in, "Mr. Carrington, please, he needs to relax."

Blake glared down at the newcomer. The violence of their flinch had reopened the wound on their temple, blood mixing with the tears rolling down their cheeks.

"Blake, let him go." Even Fallon looked taken aback at the outburst.

The Carrington patriarch obliged and stormed from the room. After a moment, his daughter followed.

"I'm going to give you something to help you calm down, alright?" the doctor said. Without waiting for a response, they injected the tranquilizers.

Reid's gasped breaths slowed to an even rhythm, and they sank into the dark.

"What the hell was that about?" Fallon snapped, following her father, "He's a guest in our home. He showed up on our doorstep covered in blood, do you know what this could mean if word got out? We need to butter him up to keep him quiet-"

"No, what we need is to figure out who he is and what he knows. Get me Anders. Now!" With the final barked command, Blake descended the stairs and slammed the door to his office.

His daughter sighed, hands on her hips.

"What's that all about?"

She turned and forced a smile. "Apparently Dad and our guest don't get along very well."

"That's impressive," Sammy Jo said, "Didn't he just get here?"

"Dad always works fast."

"Do we know anything about him? Who attacked him?"

Fallon shook her head. "But it can't have been a coincidence. No one ever shows up at Carrington Manor by chance. They always want power or money, or some other lowlife motive." She sent him a sidelong glance. "No offense."

"Uh, don't know how I couldn't take offense to that, but whatever."

"Heard from Steven?"

Sam sighed. "No. You?"

She gave another quick shake of the head. "Try not to worry. He's a big boy, he can take care of himself."

"Do you even believe yourself when you say that?"

After a moment, she reached out to squeeze his arm. He watched her go, then looked down the hall to the guest room-turned-hospital suite, brow furrowing.

**ACT THREE**

The warehouse was better lit than a dank, abandoned warehouse had any right to be.

She reclined in a ratty, disintegrating armchair, waiting. Eventually, far later than they'd agreed, he arrived.

"You're late." Along with the words came a puff of smoke.

"And you're sitting in the same place as when I left two days ago. You ever going to get off your ass and do any of this yourself?"

She shrugged. "Why would I, when I've got you?"

"That was close, too close. I don't ever want to go back there."

"Hopefully, if all goes well, you won't have to." She stubbed out her cigarette in a tarnished ashtray. "Did they get the message?"

"They should."

"You didn't kill the fag, did you?"

"As much as I want to, I know when to hold my cards. You really should give me more credit."

"I know how you are." She gave a thin smile, "Well, I'd call it a qualified success."

"And my money?"

"On its way. Keep your ear to the ground. I'll let you know when I need your services again."

Running. The moon hidden by the trees. They were running, hot breath on their neck.

"Run, little _fairyboy_ , little _faggy_." In a singsong, the voice added, " _Daddy's coming for you_."

"No," they gasped, "No, let me go."

A distant _bang, bang, bang_. A gun, gun to my head, no, please-

"No!" They flinched awake, eyes flicking around the room, chest heaving.

As their head cleared, the distant _bangs_ clarified into knocking at the door.

"Hello?" a voice called, "Can I come in?"

They swallowed hard. "Y-yes. Come in."

The door opened and a man entered, preceded by a picnic basket. "Thought I'd bring you a peace offering. I heard you and Blake Carrington didn't exactly have a nice first meeting."

"Who are you?"

"His son-in-law." He frowned, reconsidering. "Well, technically not, technically the _butler's_ son-in-law, but—well, it's complicated. That's something you learn very quickly about this family: it's all very complicated. I'm Sam."

"Reid."

"Well, Reid, you arrived in a fashion muy rara. Scared the hell out of Alexis—and thank you for that, she deserved it. Scone?"

"Uh."

"Thought you'd be hungry. I know nearly dying always makes me hungry."

Reid, already sitting up in the bed, accepted the scone with a shaking hand, unsure what to make of the situation. They adjusted the sleeve of the hospital gown, pulling it back down to cover their right shoulder.

"How are you feeling?"

The guest spared a glance down to their chest and gut, wrapped in bandages. "Been better."

"Hm, I can imagine," Sam took a seat on the edge of the bed, tucking into his own scone, "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I-I don't know. Some man attacked me, put me in this van and carved some _shit_ into my wrist. Then I wake up here."

"Did he say anything to you? Any idea why he'd bring you here?"

"No. Well-" Reid wracked their brain, hazy words and pictures blending together, unable to connect, "maybe. I can't—it's hard to focus."

"That's alright," Sam assured them, "Just take your time." The two ate in silence for a moment. "It's none of my business, I know, but do you think it maybe had to do with-" He gestured to their shoulder. "You think maybe he targeted you?"

Reid lowered the scone, eyes widening.

"Hey, you're among friends. I've gotten plenty of shit over the years for who I am. Got roughed up a lot as a kid, even after I came here."

Still suspicious, they didn't say anything.

"I'm Blake's son-in-law because I married his son." Sam smiled, a little sadly. "Then he ran off to South America and left me here, but, that's neither here nor there—this is about you. Are you out?"

"I-to some people, yes."

"Haven't seen one of those in a while," Sam looked pointedly at the tattoo, hidden by Reid's right sleeve.

Obligingly, they pulled it up to reveal the pink triangle.

"'Silence is death,' right? We could all learn from that, it's better to tell the truth than to sit by, you know?"

Reid's jaw tightened. "I think—I don't know how he knew. Unless he followed me from the club. But he—knew who I-what I am."

"Did you recognize him?"

Reid shook their head. "He had a mask."

"Well, listen, maybe you should tell the Carringtons. If it did have anything to do with your attack, it might help them find who did this."

"I-I…can't."

"They won't judge you for it, I promise. They'll just judge you on every other aspect of your personality."

Reid puffed out a breath. "That's…supposed to be comforting?"

"I don't know about comforting, but it's being honest."

"There was something else," Reid added, "Some kind of…message the man wanted me to pass along."

"To the Carringtons?"

"I don't know, I guess? He didn't say. But he left me here for a reason. If he'd wanted to—if it was just because of what I am, he could've done that on the street where he grabbed me."

Sam put a hand on their knee with an attempt at a comforting smile, "I'll go get Blake, you can tell him yourself."

"Tell me what?" A voice from the doorway, harsh and cold.

"Reid and I were just talking about what happened, he said-"

"Right now I'm not so much interested in what he said, as where he got that damn tattoo."

"It was the man who grabbed me, he did it."

"Why should I believe that?"

"You think he stabbed himself?" Sam scowled, rising to his feet to face Blake.

"Oh, what, you're defending him?"

"I-yes? He showed up here bleeding and nearly dead, he needs us to defend him from whoever the hell did that."

"Can I-"

"I should've known you'd take his side, is this some kind of payback for Steven-?"

"Leave Steven out of this!"

"Excuse me-"

"You are part of this family, Sam, I accept that, but it would behoove you to stay out of things that don't concern you."

"'Behoove'? What is this medieval bullshit you're saying?"

"I have a message." Reid tried to sit up straighter in bed, doing their best to hold themself upright even as the blood rushed from their head. "From the man who did this. Said you'd understand what it meant."

The two stopped bickering, and Blake crossed his arms. "I'm listening."

"He said a ghost is coming to visit. And that you should be ready. I don't know what the hell that means. And I promise you, the only part I played in this was unwilling messenger."

The color had drained from Blake's face. "Why you? It could've been anyone to deliver that… _message_ , why'd you show up on my doorstep?"

"I think it might have—I think I was targeted. For…what I am."

"And what is that, a con artist looking for a get-rich-quick scheme?"

"A fag. A fairyboy. A defect." Reid's teeth ground together, "His words, not mine."

For once, Blake was speechless.

"I don't know who he was, I don't know what ghost he's talking about—all I know about your family is what they say in the tabloids. I know you don't have to believe me, you probably think I'm some crazy interloper just looking for money. But I promise I'm telling you everything."

Carrington cleared his throat. "What do you want from us?"

"Please, I'm telling you all I know-"

"I mean," he raised his hands, "What I mean to say is, what can we do to help your recovery?"

Reid licked their lips, eyes flitting back and forth between Sam and Carrington, trying to read between the lines. "I just want to go back to my life."

**ACT FOUR**

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"It's a pretty self-explanatory word, 'no,'" the man replied, sitting back in his chair with thousand dollar boots propped up on the desk, "Means exactly what it says on the tin."

Fallon leaned against the bookcase, arms crossed. "We had a deal."

"Ah, emphasis on _had_. Deal's off, Carrington." Reginald Barker swung his boots to the floor and stood. He tossed a file folder onto the desk. "The contract, I think you'll find it unsigned."

"If this is about what I said the other day, I already apologized to your wife for saying she looked like she got her perm done at a discount dog groomer, it was all in jest-"

"You give yourself too much credit." Barker was halfway to the door. "I ran out of patience with the Carringtons. That name you throw around so freely doesn't mean much anymore. I've been made a deal that's a far better use of my time."

"You're not walking out of here that easily." Fallon stepped forward, blocking his exit. "Whatever they're offering you, I'll triple it."

"What they're offering me, you can't give."

"And what's that?" she snapped.

"A name other than Carrington."

Barker made to leave, but Fallon pressed a hand against the door. "Who is it? Jeff Colby?"

The man laughed and pushed her arm aside, the door slamming behind him.

Fallon, nostrils flaring, reached for the brandy and didn't bother with a glass. Swallowing, she dialed a number with furious taps.

"We need to talk."

"Someone out there is dragging the Carrington name through the mud."

"That's not hard to do," Jeff Colby remarked, flipping through a file and not entirely paying attention to the pacing woman in front of him. "As I recall, you've done it yourself on many occasions."

"You're going to help me figure out who it is."

Colby set the file down. "How do you know it isn't me?"

"Come on, cuz, we're all Carringtons, we look out for each other."

"Since when?" he scoffed.

Fallon scratched her head, brushing hair behind her ear. "Fair point." She sat on the couch. "Besides I had a friend of a friend check transaction records, I know it wasn't you."

"There's that Carrington family trust I know so well. Which deal was this?"

"I'd negotiated with Reginald Barker to develop an app for the Atlantix F.C., he seemed fine until today when he backed out with no warning."

"You know half a dozen tech startups that could develop an app in half the time for half the cost. Why go to Barker?"

" _Because_ ," Fallon leaned forward, "Barker Industries own several of the major food ordering apps in Atlanta. I made a very convincing case that putting the Carrington name and the Carrington team in his portfolio would help both of us—game day delivery specials would give him plenty of business, and, of course, we'd get a cut for letting him use our name. But at the last minute he throws the contract at my head and says he's out, has another deal that's a better use of his time."

"If your friend of a friend could see it wasn't me who offered him that deal, couldn't you see who did?"

"That's just it, the whole thing was funneled a shell company. The payment came from an account routed through another account, et cetera."

"Sounds dodgy."

"I know. Barker knows better than to business with something like that, he's not stupid. Well," she considered for a moment, "not that stupid."

"So what are you doing here telling me about it?"

"You've got friends across the tech industry, I want you to do some digging. Find out who's behind this."

"And why would I do that? I have no interest in saving the Carrington name."

"You forget this name is your name, too. Not to mention your affiliation with this team."

Colby tossed the file onto the coffeetable and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He had a sour look on his face. "Fine. This shell company have a name?"

Fallon smiled sweetly. "It's some Greek word. Sounds familiar, Steven must have read it in a book once and mentioned it. Eidolon Corp.," she pulled out her phone, "I'll send you the details."

"'Eidolon,'" Colby repeated. He also had his phone out, "Spooky. Apparently it's a 'ghost or phantom.'" He gave her a sideways grin, "Maybe you'd better call the Ghostbusters. Or a priest—I'm not qualified for exorcisms."

"Ha ha," Fallon said, unamused. "Just let me know what you find."

"I'll grab a Ouija board first thing tomorrow, have a talk with the dead."

The Carrington daughter paused at the door. "If you get through, tell the dead to mind their own business."

Hood pulled low over their eyes, the figure trudged through the rain. They were soaked to the bone. Cars didn't pass the drive of the Carrington residence as frequently as they'd assumed, it had taken far longer than expected to hitchhike downtown.

But here they were. With no phone, no wallet, no money. Covered in mud and blood, wearing a stolen jacket. Only two hours late for their shift.

Then they turned the corner and realized that was the least of their worries.

"'Permanently Closed,'" they read, bewildered. "What?"

Reid pounded on the bar's door, fist striking the 'closed' sign over and over. No one answered.

Feeling suddenly faint, they wrapped an arm around their gut and sank down to the stoop. "How could this happen?"

"Businesses close every day," a voice answered.

Reid flinched back. "I don't have any money-"

"I'm not looking for your money. I'm looking for you." The man stepped from the shadows, his face familiar.

"The butler?"

He winced. "That's not my preferred title, but I'll accept it as you're in a state of distress."

"Did your boss do this? Close my club, lose me my job? I didn't do anything to you people, why can't you leave me alone?"

The man's eyes flicked over their shoulder. Reid followed his gaze to the sign on the door, where, under the much larger 'Permanently Closed' read, in a significantly smaller script, 'Property of Eidolon Corp.'

"This was not the Carringtons' doing," the butler replied, reaching out to help them up. "If you'll come with me back to the Manor…?"

"I want to go home. I just want to go back to my life and forget any of this happened."

"It was not random chance you were selected for this task, Macintosh. There are more forces at work here than you can see. It's not safe for you to be out here."

The rain quickened, pounding on the sidewalk. Reid pushed hair from their face.

"Who the hell are you people?"

The man's eyes took on a hardened glint. "Not people you want to make an enemy of."

Reid allowed themself to be pulled to their feet. After a few steps, their legs gave way. The butler deftly threw their arm around his shoulders and half-dragged them along the sidewalk.

Their head lolled back and the rain fell into their eyes, turning the world blurry.

**ACT FIVE**

The small crowd assembled in Blake Carrington's office looked none too happy to be there, though each had their own reasons.

The ex-wife checked her nails and wondered how long this would take, she had information to gather and people to blackmail.

The son-in-law hoped staring at his phone would make a message from a certain absent someone appear—or, better yet, magic the person himself into being.

The wife, just learning of a deal gone wrong, wracked her brain for how exactly it had failed.

The daughter, fuming from said ruined deal, was waiting for a moment to discuss a way to destroy a certain shell company.

And the patriarch wondered where in the hell his butler could be.

"I can't find him anywhere," a young woman said, poking her head into the office.

"Who, Anders?"

"I was talking about Reid, but no, I can't find Dad, either."

"Sit down, Kirby. All of you," he gestured at the chairs.

New wife and old had a brief glare-off about the chair closest to the desk until it was ceded by Cristal with a faux-gracious wave of her hand. She took a seat next to Sam, Fallon perched on the arm on the other side.

"Alright, who was the last to see him?"

"I went to take him breakfast this morning," Sam said, tucking his phone in his pocket. "Thought he could use some company. That's when I saw he wasn't there—that was probably around nine."

"You and I spoke to him last night," Blake nodded, "But that leaves all night that he wasn't accounted for."

Kirby waved to get his attention, "I already talked to the house staff, Mrs. Gunnerson said she saw him this morning, near the kitchen. Gave him a glass of cocoa and sent him back to his room around five."

"That brings it down to about four hours to work with-"

"You're welcome." Kirby rolled her eyes.

"-Fallon, get our head of security over here, I want to know why the hell our guest wasn't stopped at the gate."

"Dad, I need to talk to you about-"

"Sam, search his room and see if there is any indication of where he was going. A note, anything."

"I doubt he wrote it out, but fine."

"Cristal, go to the stables and ask if anyone saw him there."

The new Mrs. Carrington gave a distracted nod.

Blake raised a finger to point at the old Mrs. Carrington, "And Alexis-" he paused, "-just stay out of the way."

In the foyer, there was a scream and the sound of something shattering.

Father and daughter were out the door in a moment, followed by Sam and Cristal. Kirby shot Alexis a look.

"I'm not running for a maid breaking a glass," the latter said, rising slowly to her feet and taking a few extra moments to make sure every strand of hair was in place.

In the lobby, a maid stood, hands pressed to her mouth. A pile of ceramic, once a vase, lay at her feet.

The door had been thrown open. A flicker of lightning illuminated a man, carrying a limp, water-logged figure over his shoulder.

"Sir," Anders said, taking a few steps inside, "We need to talk about Eidolon Corp."

Fallon narrowed her eyes, "Dad, that's the—Anders, what do you know about it?"

"We know plenty." Blake answered for the butler, moving forward to help raise the figure to its feet.

Alexis appeared at the door to his office. "Oh, you're tracking mud all over place, really, Anders, try to be more careful."

Anders' lip curled, "Certainly."

"Dad, what's going on? What is Eidolon Corp.?"

"It's-" Blake looked down at the motionless figure's wrist, "-one of our family ghosts."


	2. Like a Gnat on a Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More secrets emerge surrounding the mysterious Eidolon Corp., and Reid's past returns with a vengeance.

**ACT ONE**

The foyer fell quiet, the silence even more pronounced as Cristal shut the door, muffling sounds of the storm outside.

“What do you mean, a family ghost?”

“We used to use ‘Eidolon Corp.’ for CA business. Business we didn’t want associated with the Carrington name-”

“Your dirty work,” Sam supplied, raising an eyebrow.

“Dirty, but necessary,” Blake insisted. “But we stopped it years ago, the name became too…tainted. I made a mistake in judgement putting who I did in charge. So we buried Eidolon, burned all our ties.”

“Evidently not, Daddy, as it just bought out Reginald Barker and ruined my deal for an Atlantix app.”

“What?”

“I just heard,” Cristal added, “A few days ago Barker was fully on board, then all the sudden he just drops out.”

“That’s not all, sir,” Anders said, close to Blake’s ear, “Eidolon just bought the bar at which our guest worked. They’re tearing it down.”

“Oh, hell.”

“He’s not going to like that,” Sam grimaced.

“Enough standing around, let’s get him back to bed.” Blake and Anders hauled the newcomer up the stairs.

Over his shoulder, Anders called, “Petunia, clean that up at once.”

The maid jumped at the sound of her name, then scurried down the hall for a dustpan.

The other Carringtons made their way to the sitting area, assuming in the same positions they’d occupied in Blake’s office.

“I always knew this house had bad energy.”

Fallon cast an unbelieving look at her mother. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why, isn’t it obvious? This is a haunting. A ghost from our past coming to wreak havoc on our lives.”

“No, this is some sick joke,” Fallon corrected, “One of Dad’s old contacts who feels wronged in some way resurrecting the name of a dead company front. If anyone’s a ghost here to cause havoc, it’s you, Mother.”

E.C.

“Shouldn’t you call the police?”

Blake, bent over his desk, started at the voice. “Cristal, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Night had fallen, the grounds of Carrington Manor still and dark.

“Your men have had time to look into it-”

“They’ve got over 300 acres to search and so far it’s been less than 48 hours. Give them time.” He closed the folder he’d been reading and poured himself another drink.

“Why don’t you want the police here?”

Blake sipped his drink, regarding her over the rim of the glass. “Our security team will handle it.” He quickly changed the subject. “Now, tell me about that deal you and Fallon lost.”

“We didn’t lose anything,” Cristal frowned, taking a seat on the edge of the desk. “It’s like we told you: Barker was on board to create an app for the team and tie it in with local food delivery companies, then at a meeting with Fallon yesterday, out of nowhere, he changes his mind.”

“Did he say he was doing business with Eidolon?”

“No, Fallon did some asking around. She has Jeff Colby trying to find more. And before you say anything-” she added quickly, as Blake scowled and leaned back in his chair, “-no, we haven’t told him about the Carrington tie to Eidolon.”

“But he’s bound to find out if he’s digging around in the past.”

“We didn’t know that when Fallon asked him for help.”

Blake set his glass down and sighed, “I know, I—I thought I’d buried Eidolon years ago. It’s…disquieting to have it back.”

“That person you put in charge of it, they made some bad deals? Betrayed your trust?”

“Worse than that.” He rose to his feet, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Blake-”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.” He checked his watch. “It’s past midnight. We should get to bed.”

As he left the office without another word, Cristal hesitated before following. Her eyes were drawn to the file left on the desk, the initials ‘E.C.’ emblazoned on the front. Pursuing her lips, she turned away.

“Mrs. Carrington,” a voice stopped her. A maid stood outside the door, one hand in her apron pocket.

“Petunia, what is it?”

From the pocket, Petunia drew a folded leather wallet. “I found it by the stables. I didn’t know what to do with it—Mr. Carrington sounded so angry earlier, and I broke the vase-”

“That’s alright, Petunia. Give it to me, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

Cristal watched her go. On a whim, she flipped the wallet open. A driver’s license, a debit card, a punch card from a local supermarket—all bearing the name Reid Macintosh.

In one of the front folds, a business card:

‘Eidolon Corp.: Truth Always Finds the Way.’

She flipped it over. A name, one she didn’t recognize.

Looking quickly around the foyer and seeing no one, she tucked the card in the pocket of her robe and hurried up the stairs. There were a few questions she’d like to ask the newcomer, though they could wait.

She needed time to think.

**ACT TWO**

“There are maids to do that for you, you know.” The voice from the doorway startled them. “And do a better job of it.”

Reid didn’t turn, holding themself upright with one hand on the nightstand and fixing a sheet with the other. “I was raised to clean up after myself.”

“The Carringtons were, too, though admittedly in a different way.” Anders opened the door further and stepped inside. “It’s interesting, I can’t seem to find any record of your path intersecting with the family.”

“I already told you, I don’t know anything about you people. I’m not comfortable here-”

“That was made abundantly clear when you ran away.”

“Can you blame me? I’m a prisoner here. No one tells me anything, you watch me like a hawk. I can’t go to the bathroom without a half-dozen people escorting me.”

“You are free to roam the halls of the Manor.”

“A cage that’s covered in gold and has a hundred rooms is still a cage.”

Anders let out a quiet chuckle. “You sound quite a lot like Steven. Shame you two haven’t met, it seems you share a similar distaste for the Carrington way.”

“Where is he?” Reid snapped, turning to face him. “Locked up in some other corner of this godforsaken house?”

The man didn’t answer, instead stepping to the other side of the bed to pull the sheet taut across the mattress.

The two worked in silence. Finally, Reid felt the need to speak.

“I have nothing against your family. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”

“They’re not my-” he stopped. “Yes, that’s becoming clearer. Won’t you come down and join the others for breakfast?”

Placing the final pillow atop the covers, Reid realized it was an order disguised as a request. They obliged, doing their best to hide the pained wincing as they descended the stairs.

The yelling reached their ears before they came within sight of the dining room.

“-cease and desist order?”

“He’s only asking for trouble digging around in the past.”

“But Fallon asked him-”

“I don’t care what she did, it was a mistake and I’m fixing it.”

“Blake, that’s-”

“I’m protecting the family.”

“Did you forget Jeff Colby is part of this family?” Fallon’s back was to Anders and Reid, but even from behind it was clear how irate she was.

“No, because you people kindly take it upon yourselves to remind me at every opportunity! Drop this, Fallon, I mean it. Call off your dogs, call off Jeff Colby. Let the past die.”

Anders cleared his throat and the four figures seated at the table seemed to turn as one.

“Our guest,” he said, looking pointedly at Reid.

Sam, with the uncomfortable expression of an unwilling viewer at a particularly aggressive tennis match, tapped the chair to his right.

Reid sat, gritting their teeth against the pained tugging in their gut.

“Welcome to your first taste of the daily Carrington Breakfast Brawl,” Sam whispered, pouring them a glass of juice. “Don’t worry, it only gets worse.”

Reid grimaced, muttering back, “I don’t plan to stay that long.”

“Should you be up on your feet?” Blake asked. Reid might have been duped by the faux-concern in his voice if they weren’t already on their guard. “Doc said you should rest.”

His daughter wasn’t buying the act either.

“By all means, Dad, go fluff his pillows yourself if you’re that concerned.”

A maid placed a plate of fruit in front of Reid before they could reply.

“Oh, I-” they began.

“I’m merely asking our guest how he feels, Fallon, and I don’t like your tone.”

“Go on, ask him more. Do a full background check—though I bet you have already. Mother’s maiden name? Address of a childhood home? Last four of his social?”

“Fallon-” Cristal attempted to speak over the woman across the table, but was unsuccessful.

“What about employment history? Last job-?” Fallon pressed a hand against her forehead in mock chagrin. “Oh, but you took care of that, didn’t you?”

“That’s enough.” Blake rose to his feet, silverware clattering loudly on the table.

The others fell silent.

“I’ve already said I had nothing to do with that.”

“No, it was just the old Carrington cleaner company, hm?” Fallon also stood, planting her palms on the table, “Blaming _family ghosts_ won’t work forever.”

The two glared at each other for a long moment, during which no one else in the room dared to breathe. Each turned on their heel and stormed off in opposite directions: Blake to his office, Fallon out the front door.

Sam, eyes wide, was the first to speak. “Well, I was right—it did get worse. Coffee?”

Reid didn’t speak much for the rest of breakfast, moving around the same strawberry on their plate as Sam and Cristal filled the silence with idle chit-chat. Finally, mercifully, the plates were cleared and Reid was released from what had abruptly come to remind them of a prison mess hall.

Before they could leave, Cristal caught their arm.

“Oh, Reid, I think this is yours.”

Reid looked down. “My wallet? Where’d you find this?”

“A maid found it by the stables.” She was closely watching their face. “Is everything there?”

“There wasn’t much in there to take.” Reid flipped it open and glanced through the contents. “Nothing’s missing—even my debit card is here.”

Cristal’s lips turned down slightly, then straightened just as quickly as Reid looked up.

“Thank you, I was sure whoever grabbed me would have trashed this.”

“Thank Petunia, she’s the one who found it.”

Cristal allowed the frown to cross her face as they turned to slowly hobble away.

_E.C._

The warehouse was empty when he arrived. Scowling, he thrust his hands in his pockets and waited. And waited.

And waited.

Finally, she entered, lowering an umbrella dripping with rain.

“About goddamn time, you know how long I’ve been-”

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The _phone_ , you imbecile.” She threw the umbrella to the ground and stormed to the chair. “If you’re holding out on me-” There was no effort to hide the threat in her voice.

“I don’t have the fuckin’ phone,” he snapped, crossing his arms. “The car’s already been disposed of, maybe it was in that little fuck’s pocket.”

“Or maybe you left it in the middle of the Carrington estate.” She was spitting venom with each word.

The man opened his mouth, then closed it and shrugged. “Maybe. Why do you need a phone, anyway?”

“Not _a_ phone, _the_ phone. It’s the key to everything. Go back and search the estate.”

“Are you kidding? The place is crawling with Carrington goons, if I go back-”

“ _Get me that phone_.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he snapped. “But you better make it worth my while. Double my fee.”

She gave a sharp, cruel bark of laughter. “You think I’m going to reward you for fucking up? You made this mess—clean it up. Unless you want me to take some interesting things I’ve learned about you and tell-”

“Fine.”

A thin smile. “24 hours.”

**ACT THREE**

Passing time in a mansion proved to be harder than Reid had expected. It appeared they’d be trapped there indefinitely.

The pain wasn’t the worst part of it—they’d had pain before. It was the uncertainty. And certainly, Reid had experienced uncertainty before, but not like this. Now, feeling like the pawn of a family with more money than God and dirty laundry to match, the knowledge of their predicament and the lack of an escape route were beginning to eat away at them.

And time seemed to ooze. From the tabloids and soap operas, Reid had gotten the impression that life on such a sprawling estate would be breezy. Though there was no shortage of possible entertainment—from private pool, to private bar, to private movie theater—they couldn’t seem to force themselves to partake.

Everywhere they looked gave them a sour taste in their mouth, a sick feeling in their stomach.

They couldn’t bring themselves to stay in a room for more than a few minutes, retreating back to the relative safety of their makeshift hospital room.

After hours of sitting with their back against the wall, the rumbling in Reid’s stomach finally forced them down to the kitchens. They were grateful to find them abandoned, and were in the middle of rummaging through the cabinets when they heard someone enter the room.

Reid turned, hand pressed to their bandaged chest, “I was just-oh.”

“Hello, _dear_.” The address seemed forced, doused in an insincere layer of sickly sweetness. “I see you’re feeling better.”

Her face conjured up the memory of the shocked scream, Reid’s first introduction to the Carrington family.

“I am.”

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Alexis Carrington, the _original_ Mrs. Carrington.” There was a meaningful emphasis placed on the words. “You must be our guest, Mr. Macintosh?”

“Reid.”

Another smile, one that sent a crawling discomfort down Reid’s spine.

“And what brings you here, Reid?”

“I-”

“I know what you’ve told Blake, the story you’ve told everyone. But I’m asking you, really, why are you here?”

The edge of the counter dug into Reid’s back. “I was kidnapped, attacked. By someone who wanted to send a… _message_ to your family.”

“Mm.”

“The bastard grabbed me to deliver it, for some reason.”

“You don’t know who did this?” There was an unpleasant suggestion behind the words.

“Of course not.” Reid glared. “Why do you people keep accusing me of faking this? I’m a bystander here, I don’t want-”

“I guess our hesitation comes from, well, how things seem.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re allegedly kidnapped and attacked, as you say, by this mysterious _someone_ who _somehow_ managed to drop you on Carrington property without being noticed?” Alexis took a few steps forward, emphasizing the words. “But you seem to be all healed up now, walking free. Even had your little _escapade_ away from the Manor.

“Not to mention your employer, which just happened to be bought out by the very company once associated, now estranged from the Carrington name. It all seems so…coincidental, doesn’t it?”

Reid wracked their brain, trying to make sense of what the woman was saying. “Are you saying this is some scheme? To what, get money? Power?”

“I don’t know what it is,” she said, lifting her chin. “But I know you know more than you’re letting on. And I’d hate for your secret to get out.”

The two met eyes across the room in an uneasy silence.

“You’re not hard to find, dear. And when I looked into you, it’s astounding what I found. Once cat’s out of the bag, it’s so terribly hard to put back in.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m trying to help you.” Alexis attempted a saintly demeanor. “Come clean now, I promise it will be far worse if you wait. Or if it comes from someone else. Someone like…” She gave a small shrug.

“I have nothing to hide.”

“Why don’t you tell them just what you are?”

“Oh, that’s low,” Reid snapped. “But you’re too late, they already know-”

“Do they know everything?”

They realized they’d misunderstood the question. She wasn’t threatening to out, them, this was something different. Something hidden even deeper.

“What do you know?”

Alexis tilted her head. “Your little…arrangement at the club. What do you think Blake will do with you when he finds out just what sort of business you engaged in?”

Reid lowered their voice, leaning forward with clenched fists. “That was a long time ago. Bruce never-”

“Bruce?”

Their head snapped up.

A wicked light had come into Alexis’ eye.

“Now, just-you-I-”

“And your apartment? Did Blake tell you about that?”

Reid rounded the island so the two stood eye-to-eye. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at.”

“Like I said, I looked you up. Found your apartment. And I wasn’t the only one. Your friends at Eidolon found it, too.”

E.C.

Anders had his back to the door, examining the bottle of 30-year-old wine in his hands, when he heard the footsteps.

Half-turning, he raised an eyebrow at who he saw.

“Mrs. Carrington,” he greeted, lowering the bottle, “What a surprise to find you down here. Might I help you find something?”

“Someone.” She took a few steps into the wine cellar, and closed the door. “Anders, I’m looking for genealogy information. A family tree, anything.”

The butler’s other eyebrow rose.

“And why, may I ask, are you looking for that?”

“Like I said, I’m looking for someone.”

Anders set the bottle next to the other two he’d selected to make up the evening’s options. “I know of most everyone who bears the Carrington name. Blake’s father kept me well-informed about the family’s past.”

“I’m sure,” Cristal said, with a thin smile, “But I’d rather look for this myself.”

He gave his own forced smile in return.

“I assume this is about Eidolon Corp.”

There was a long pause.

Finally, Cristal set her jaw and broke the silence:

“Esther Carrington.”

Anders drew back as if he’d been slapped.

Cristal planted her hands on the table between them. “Who is she?”

He swallowed. “No one you should worry about.”

“Anders-”

“I am telling you, Miss Jennings, to stop looking.”

“It’s my right to know what this family is hiding, I’m part of it, aren’t I?”

“You’re not part of this. For your sake, I won’t tell Blake you were asking about… _her_. I suggest you keep this to yourself.”

Before she could respond, a maid threw open the door.

“There’s someone here!” she shouted, near-hysterical.

“Petunia,” Anders started, “What on earth-”

“An intruder,” Petunia cried, “An intruder on the estate!”

E.C.

“I hope you’re happy.”

The words reached Blake Carrington’s ears before he saw who was shouting them. He lowered the golf club and turned, confusion on his face.

“First my job,” Reid continued, striding with as much grace as they could muster down the lawn. “Now my apartment—your Eidolon Corp. is destroying my life!”

“What are you-”

“What did I do to deserve this?”

Blake tried again. “What do you mean, your apartment?”

“Your company bought out my landlord. Evicted me. Probably all my neighbors, too. That’s the best way to remind us of our place, huh? Our place on the ground, while you saunter around in the clouds.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Carrington said, “and that’s the truth.”

“The truth—you want to talk to me about the truth? Since the day I arrived here, you’ve lied and misled me. Kept me trapped in that room, took my job and my home-”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Oh, it wasn’t? I thought it was the corporation _with your name on it_.”

“We buried that a long time ago. I don’t know how it’s back, but I don’t have anything to do with it. If anything, you should know!”

“Excuse me?”

“Of everywhere you could’ve showed up, you come to _my_ doorstep-”

“I was attacked!”

“My men have scoured this estate, they haven’t found a trace of this alleged assailant of yours.”

“ _Do you think I fucking stabbed myself?_ ”

“There’s no limit to what people do for money.”

“People like me, you mean. Nobodies. Bartenders, lowlifes. Scum, is that what you mean?”

At the top of the hill, voices rose. Neither Reid nor Blake turned. Blood boiling, each focused on the red-faced figure in front of them.

“What am I supposed to think? It was _you_ who showed up here, _you_ who mentioned Eidolon-”

“I know fuck-all about your fucking shadow company, all I was told was that some damn _ghost-_ ”

“Oh, you’re not behind this, are you? How’d you get the signature of a dead woman on your wrist? Explain that.”

“I don’t know whose name it is, I don’t think-”

“She put you up to this. Trying to bleed me dry. To ruin my family—well, I won’t have it. I will bury her again, and I will bury you, too!”

The voices drew closer, interrupting him.

“-here, there’s someone-”

Enraged, Blake turned. “What are you shouting about, dammit?”

“Intruder!” Cristal’s voice carried down the grass to them.

“Did she say-”

A gunshot rang out.

**ACT FOUR**

It was a mad rush to get inside.

Blake grabbed for Cristal’s arm and all but dragged her back to the house. The maid, Petunia, was screaming at the top of her lungs, a dizzying sound that made Reid’s ears ring.

Their feet pounded the ground, throwing up bits of grass and dirt, each step jolting their bandaged chest. Each step a reminder—running, always running.

A hand grabbed their shoulder and roughly guided them toward the nearest door, which led to the sitting room. Shrugging it off, they saw Anders stepping back. He regarded them with narrowed eyes.

Alexis, phone in hand, cowered in the corner.

“What’s going on?” she shrieked

Blake ignored her. “Anybody hurt?”

After a few mumbled assurances that all were, at worst, shaken, he rounded on Reid. “Seems every moment you’re here is another my family is in danger.”

A few more shots cracked through the air, pinging off statues in the garden and ricocheting into a nearby window.

“That bastard’s shooting at all of us, Carrington,” Reid spat back. “Don’t try to pin this on me.”

“This wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t-”

“It wasn’t my damn choice to come here!”

The two resumed their shouting match, though this time at furious stage whispers.

Anders cautiously peered out the window. A few moment had elapsed since the last shots, an uneasy calm hung in the air.

“Where are they?” Cristal whispered.

Before Anders could respond, the front door was flung open. Six heads seemed to turn as one, expressions ranging from horrified to enraged.

“I hope you’re happy!” Fallon stomped inside, throwing her purse onto the table in the middle of the lobby. “I spent all morning making calls, and you’ll never believe what I found.”

“Miss Carrington-”

“Because of your old dirty work, Daddy dearest, half of my contacts are openly disowning me, and the others won’t return my messages. Seems the only ally I have is our dear cousin, and to call a Colby an ally is laughable.”

“Fallon,” Blake hissed, “Shut up and get down.”

His daughter stopped in the doorway, arms crossed. “What are you all doing on the ground? Did someone lose a contact?”

_Crack_

A window shattered, sending glass flying.

For a split second, Fallon seemed frozen. Then she ducked behind a chair.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Lock the estate down.” Blake didn’t turn as he shouted to Anders, keeping his gaze focused on the grounds outside the shattered glass doors. “Nobody goes in or out. That includes _you_.”

Reid didn’t have to look to know at whom the order was directed.

“Who is Esther Carrington?”

The question, to everyone’s surprise—especially Blake’s—came from Cristal.

“Excuse me?”

“Esther Carrington.”

“How do you know that name?”

Another volley of shots came overhead.

Anders attempted to deflect, “Perhaps there are other things that, at the moment, we should-”

Cristal turned to Reid. “What do you know about her?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you people _I don’t know shit!_ ”

“And the signature on your wrist?”

“Is it so hard for you rich bastards to understand a kidnapping?” Reid lowered their voice to a frantic whisper,

“I don’t know who the bitch is, but _I’m_ not the one who shares her last name. Ask your husband, he seems to have plenty of reason to hide his dirty laundry.”

Cristal turned to Blake, silent. Waiting.

“Would someone _please-_ ” Fallon began.

“Sir? Mr. Carrington, sir?”

A voice called from outside. Everyone fell silent, looking toward the sound.

“In here.”

Alexis keened, “What if it’s a trap, you idiot?”

Blake again ignored her, and, crouching, moved to the door. “What took you so long?”

“We found the source of the shots, sir,” the security guard replied, “Gerards called it in over the radio—he found the gun. But the shooter’s gone.”

**ACT FIVE**

Hours passed, darkness fell.

She was waiting in her usual chair. As he approached, the woman held out an expectant hand.

“I didn’t get it.”

“You _what_?”

“Look, I didn’t have much time. Fucking place was crawling with security, especially after I started shooting-”

“What do you mean, you _didn’t get it_?”

“I looked where you told me, behind the stables. Nothing was there. I barely got away!”

“You shouldn’t have left without it.”

“How was I supposed-”

She stood. In an instant, he found the barrel of a gun trained between his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have left.”

He raised his hands, slowly. “Look,” he swallowed, “give me time, I’ll check the apartment. Maybe it’s there.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. After a long moment, she lowered the weapon.

“You’d better hope it is. _Get me that phone_.”

He was starting to think he’d gotten into the wrong business. Something he should’ve thought weeks ago, when he first got into business with the bitch.

E.C.

Alexis lounged on the sofa, idly scrolling through a phone.

“No, I know,” she said, into the other phone, tucked between her shoulder and ear. “I already know that, we need something better. Get me, hm…scorned ex-lovers. Or embezzlement. Or—no, I’m not asking too much. I don’t care if you aren’t finding the name. If you can’t find anything, dammit, make it up!”

The phone was thrown haphazardly on the table. Alexis turned her attention to the one in her hands with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, Reid, dear, that’s not a flattering angle,” she murmured.

A distant _bang_.

Alexis didn’t look up, assuming it was a car backfiring. Not an uncommon sound.

Photos—boring.

Social media presence—all but nonexistent.

Emails—now, here was something.

“Maybe this wasn’t a waste…” More scrolling. “Oh, my.”

Embezzlement wasn’t much, but blackmail…

“That could be something.”

“Mrs. Carrington!” The frantic call startled her, and she pressed the phone against her chest.

“What, what?”

“There’s an intruder!”

E.C.

“Damn her,” Black spat.

He turned as if he meant to pace, but stopped short. “My word stands, lock down the estate. And figure out how the hell whoever this was got in.”

Before he could leave the room, Cristal blocked his way.

“You’re not leaving until you tell us who this Esther is. Is she really a-a Carrington?”

“‘Esther,’” Fallon echoed, “I don’t know any Esther Carrington. Is some witch trying to profit off our family name?”

“Sounds like she’s trying to kill you, not make money,” Reid pointed out.

“Blake,” Cristal urged, “If this Esther woman is a real threat, we need to know.”

The Carrington patriarch set his jaw, thinking. He met Anders’ eyes, then seemed to arrive at a conclusion.

“Fine.”

Fallon cleaned glass off a chair and leaned against it. “This’ll be good.”

Blake pointed to Reid. “That name on your wrist is her calling card. You’re not the first person she’s taken and…branded.”

Reid grabbed their wrist, grimacing.

“I- _we_ trusted her with Eidolon Corp. It wasn’t meant to be an actual business, not at first. Just a shell for taking care of business we didn’t necessarily want the Carrington name associated with. But she got in with the organized criminals, people we don’t associate with-”

“Heaven forbid someone offends the delicate Carrington sensibility.” Reid scoffed.

“She started funneling money to these contacts for all sorts of things—drugs, prostitution, ordering hits. We cut her off, disowned her. I’d even heard she-I heard she’d been killed, some drug deal gone wrong. I always told her she was in over her head.”

“Arrogance does run in the family,” Fallon tilted her head. “Who is she to you, anyway, Blake? If she really is some distant relative, I owe her a few dozen Christmas cards.”

“It doesn’t matter who she is,” he snapped. “What matters is she’s behind this, that much is clear.”

“Eidolon Corp. ruining the Atlantix deal…” Cristal trailed off.

“That’s just the beginning. There’s no end to what she’ll do, no limit to how far she’ll go to ruin us.”

“It was just one deal.”

“That’s just the first step. She’ll do anything in her power to pick away at our name, taking one deal at a time.” With a meaningful look, he added, “One ally at a time.”

Fallon looked away, nostrils flaring.

“Like a gnat on a tiger,” Anders said. He’d been so quiet, Reid had almost forgotten he stood right behind them. “Little nibbles until the beats brings itself down.”

“Why now?” Cristal asked, “Why after all this time?”

“There have been plenty of times in the past few years we weren’t exactly shining beacons of virtue.”

In the corner, Alexis straightened, “I think the real question we should ask is, ‘Why you?’”

She looked pointedly, unblinking, at Reid.


	3. Swimming with Sharks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The accident at the bar was months ago. Reid's managed to keep it hidden, but not for much longer.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for queer slurs, attempted non-con/rape

**ACT ONE**

“Hey, welcome back.”

Reid set a napkin on the bar and turned to fix his regular.

“How’ve you been?”

“Oh, just great,” Reid drawled, with a wry grin, “All I’ve made tonight is a whole $7 from a perv who wouldn’t stop grabbing at my ass. The glamourous, high-stakes life of a bartender.”

The man gave a sympathetic half-smile. “Sounds like it can get pretty rough sometimes.”

“It’s a living. What about you? Haven’t seen you in here in a while.”

He looked down at the bar and shifted in his chair. “Oh, the usual…family stuff. I’d rather not talk about it.”

Reid gave a knowing nod, placing the glass in front of him.

They happened to glance over his shoulder and catch the eye of a figure across the floor, looming in the shadow cast by the staircase at the back of the room.

The figure gave a half-smile, all teeth and darkly shining eyes. A web of scars covered his left cheek, drawing the eye even as the looker attempted not to stare, out of respect. Or fear.

The man took a sip of his drink and noticed how their face had suddenly fallen.

“What is it?” He twisted to see where they were looking. “Who is that?”

Reid cleared their throat. “Nobody.”

The glass was returned to the bar with a hard _clink_. “Is he bothering you?”

“No, no.”

Nothing said that quickly was ever true.

The man narrowed his eyes, already halfway out of his chair.

“Stuart, hold it-hold on.” They reached across to grab his arm and pulled him back down to the chair, none too gently. “He’s just some local muscle. It’s not a big deal, we all put up with him.”

“Just because you put up with it doesn’t make it right.” Stuart’s eyes flashed.

“I know, I know,” Reid raised a hand, placating.

“Who is that?” Stuart repeated.

The bartender slung a towel over their shoulder and sent a sharp puff of air through their teeth. After a moment, they spoke.

“We call him Shark. Most for the teeth, he’s all teeth. If you’ve ever… _worked_ with him, you know that’s true.”

Stuart’s eyes narrowed further still.

“He-” Reid started, but cut off as the bar manager pushed past. Their caution was unnecessary, as he didn’t pause instead focused on the shouting match which had broken out over the dart board.

They began again, voice lower this time.

“He’s the manager’s brother. Employs some of our regulars doing less-than-honest work. And some of us bartenders, too.”

“You mean-?”

“The sort of work you don’t write home about.” They’d already said too much. “Don’t worry about it, just drink your drink.”

Stuart seemed to be debating something. “Look, my-my father is a very influential man. I can have him investigate, get some of his cop friends-”

“No way, man,” Reid let out a harsh bark of laughter. “No cops. You’d get the whole place shut down, then we’d all be out on the street.”

The man didn’t look at all satisfied with Reid’s response, and took another gulp of his drink.

Reid filled the silence.

“Besides, it's not like your dad owns the town. What could you do but get yourself in trouble? Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

Stuart studied them for a long moment. “Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Shark doesn’t scare me.”

They’d gotten used to lying through gritted teeth.

**ACT TWO**

“Sorry, sir.” The guard blocked Reid’s attempted exit. “The estate is locked down. Mr. Carrington’s orders.”

Reid stared past him, through the front door, so close to freedom.

“Sorry,” the guard repeated, the word not meant as an actual apology.

Rather, it indicated that the conversation was over and it was in their best interest to turn back to the inside of the manor.

Probably for the best. Even if they managed to get free of the estate—what then? They’d escaped once before, only to be trailed and retrieved like a stumbling, lost child.

A hand drifted to their chest as they turned, walking with purpose to nowhere in particular. Hopefully the false intent behind their steps would dissuade anyone from stopping them.

The bandages still encircled their chest. And, listen, they’d never been stabbed before, and therefore could hardly call themself an expert…but something about the attack jarred them. Aside from the obvious.

The precision of the blade, the size of the wound.

Days ago they’d tried to ask the doctor about it, about lasting scars, internal bleeding. The doctor, clearly nervous as she’d been instructed to report to Blake Carrington before speaking to the patient, had eventually come clean.

No lasting damage. Maybe a scar, but the wound had been small. Needed only a few stitches. It produced far more blood than a usual wound of that size.

It was about the placement—here the doctor avoided their eyes. Perhaps the attacker got lucky. Perhaps it was intentional.

Reid peppered her with questions: “What does that mean? He wanted me to bleed? To make it seem more serious?”

The doctor didn't reply, and quickly left the room.

Their mindless steps took them past the door to their room, once a makeshift hospital suite. The medical equipment was gone, spirited away the day before. Clearly there was no real reason for Reid to remain.

The doctor’s lack of answers had clinched it in their mind—the attack was no random chance, they weren’t dumped by accident on the estate. They were meant to infiltrate the manor, to draw attention, to be focused on.

To be trapped there.

Any excuses the Carringtons made about keeping an eye on them, to make sure there were no complications from the wound, were lies.

It was something else.

Reid turned the corner and recoiled, suddenly brought out of their thoughts by the figure standing in the hall.

“There you are!” Alexis Carrington had the smile of a snake viewing its prey. “I wondered where you’d wandered to.”

Reid crossed their arms over their chest, drawing back slightly. They said nothing.

“Strong and silent type, hm?” Alexis took a few steps closer, leaning against the wall just a few feet away, a playful smile on her lips.

“It’s interesting how you ended up here," she continued. "I’ve been going over it, maybe you can tell me if I’m missing anything—you’re walking down the street and, suddenly, bam!, you’re bundled into a van, blindfolded, driven all the way out of town and the mysterious, unknown man somehow stops _right_ outside the Carrington estate. This man then feeds you a cryptic message about a ‘ghost’ that just so happens to be haunting the Carrington family, stabs you in, let’s not sugarcoat it, a _very convenient_ spot, and sends you on your way into the grounds. And, remarkably, he leaves absolutely no trace of his being here.

“Interesting. Let’s go over what really happened, though, shall we, dear? You need a quick buck. You've heard about the Carringtons, Atlanta's high and mighty. You concoct some delusional revenge plot, a get-rich-quick scheme. You stage a kidnapping to break onto the Carrington estate, fake a stabbing—really, dear, that amount of blood was far too obvious—to gain our sympathy and infiltrate our home-”

Reid couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Do you realize how insane you sound? You think I did all this to get inside your house— _you’re_ the ones keeping me here, _I’ve_ been trying to leave for days.”

“You then-” Alexis continued as if Reid hadn’t interjected, “hire an assassin to cover your tracks-”

“An assassin? You think I’d go to all this trouble for your privileged little asses? You were there while _whoever it was_ was shooting—you think I’d put myself in the line of fire to ‘cover my tracks’?”

“Who knows how far your damaged, pathetic little mind would go?”

Reid scoffed. “You’re delusional.”

They tried to push past, but Alexis threw an arm out to block their path. Their hand held a phone, scratched and covered in dry, flaking mud.

They grabbed for it. “Where’d you get that?”

Alexis snatched it out of reach. “Interesting what information we keep on our phones, thinking we’re keeping it all to ourselves.”

“Give that back.”

“Who’s Tommy Laurent?”

The name hit like a slap in the face.

“I don’t-”

“You’re right, you probably know him better by a different name,” Alexis purred. “Shark, isn’t it?”

**ACT THREE**

“Hey, little faggy.”

The voice raised the hair on the nape of Reid’s neck.

They knew who it was without turning.

Their mind raced—the bar was closed. No one around. Darkened streets would greet them on their long walk home. The manager was gone, it was up to Reid to close up.

Not that the manager would do much good, even if he was around. Not like he’d believe a smalltime crook of bartender over his brother.

He’d been waiting for them in the darkened room.

“Shark,” they returned, not turning.

Focusing on arranging the empty glasses in the crate in front of them. Watching his movements in the distorted reflection of a bottle on a shelf next to their head.

“That little proposition we discussed the other day is still available.”

“Not interested, Shark.”

When the smudged figure in the bottle stepped forward, Reid turned, pressing their back against the stack of crates.

“Back off, Shark, I said I’m not interested.”

The man paused, leaning easily back on his heels. Hands in his pockets, an air of nonchalance about him, as if they were discussing the weather.

“Could use somebody like you.” He jeered. “Appeal to some of our clients with more…eccentric tastes.”

“You think insulting me will change my mind?”

“Oh, not at all. I have other ways in mind of doing that.”

Reid’s lip curled. They felt behind them for a glass, silently sliding it from the crate at their hip. “Your brother will shut you down the minute he finds out.”

“And who’s gonna tell him? Not me.” He stepped forward. “Certainly not you.”

The glass flew from their hand almost of its own volition, narrowly missing Shark’s head and shattering on the wall a few feet behind him.

He laughed. “Careful there, fairy-boy, you could hurt somebody. And I’d hate for that to happen.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Reid spat, groping for another glass.

“We could make good money together, kiddo.”

He continued walking forward as Reid slipped to the side, out of reach. They continued the odd little dance around the room, Reid desperately trying to keep a wall at their back. Abruptly they felt open air, and didn’t need to look to know they were in the doorway, with just the staircase beyond.

“You won’t even need to do much of the escorting—let’s not kid, I’ve got far better options than you for that. You’re good at running. And I can think of far better positions for you.”

The glass slipped from Reid’s fingers, shattering on the ground. They reached down and blindly grabbed for a shard, slicing open their hand as they held it in front of them.

Shark laughed again, a grating sound that mixed unpleasantly with the pounding blood in Reid’s ears.

“You're not my type, but maybe I can come around.” The man crossed the gap between them in larger strides than Reid had anticipated.

Fingers dug into their arm, Shark hissing in their ear, “ _Come to daddy_.”

Jaw clenched, Reid jerked away. Shark stumbled back.

Reid didn’t think. Couldn’t think.

His fingers found their arm again.

They turned, throwing their weight into the motion. He was still off-balance, fingers losing purchase. Slipping off the fabric.

The upper floor of the bar consisted of a single room, used for storage. The hardwood was rotting and uneven in places. Reid spent enough time lugging crates up and down the stairs to know where to step, where to place weight.

Shark, to his misfortune, did not.

His few careening steps set down on patchy floorboards, unable to hold his weight. Some, just enough, buckled.

The fall seemed to happen in slow motion.

It seemed to Reid, all they could hear was the dripping of blood from their fingers onto the floor. Onto the broken shards of glass beneath their feet.

Then the dripping faded into the background, and they could hear his shout cut short.

A crash.

Then Shark lay, twitching, at the bottom of the stairs.

Reid managed to quell the nausea until they made it out the back door, then their feet hit pavement and they vomited against the piss-soaked bricks of the bar’s back alley.

**ACT FOUR**

Anders had grown accustomed to the long hours demanded of him by the Carringtons. He didn’t have time for hobbies or activities outside the home; the manor was his life.

The ins and outs of Carrington business, the inner workings of the estate, everything down to the temperature of the pool were necessary knowledge to him.

He knew everything there was to know about the family, their lives, their home. Especially, he reflected, those things he ought not to know.

It bothered him, then, when he ran across something he didn’t know.

More than ‘bothered’ –it was dangerous. One might even say it frightened him, though he certainly wouldn't admit it.

The current something that nagged at him was one Frank Laurent.

More specifically, his death.

The headline called it an apparent suicide. Mr. Laurent, according to his obituary, was the owner of a reasonably popular dive bar. Not exactly the most reputable of establishments, but Laurent was not widely known to engage in illegal activity. His death, per the beginning grafs of the article, was not being investigated.

Those who knew him said Mr. Laurent was not an especially morose person, nor had he demonstrated any sign of being depressed in the days leading to his death. But, as the author of the article pointed out, often it was hard to tell. Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances.

Perhaps it was the death of his brother under similar circumstances, earlier this year.

Tommy Laurent, 45, had been found dead just months before. The elder Laurent brother was a frequent patron of Laurent’s bar, and was known to use the establishment as a headquarters for his business.

What sort of business, the article didn’t specify.

There were two points that immediately struck Anders as worth noting.

Firstly was the timing; the younger Laurent brother’s body had been found the previous week. The obituary Anders read was from the current day’s newspaper.

The coroner, however, in an autopsy requested by the family, determined Laurent had been dead for nearly a week before the body was found.

Secondly was the identity of Mr. Laurent. He was the owner and manager of a bar, as previously stated. The manager of a bar at which, until a few short days ago, Reid Macintosh was a bartender.

That would place his death just days before their guest was abducted, and appeared on the Carrington estate.

Perhaps it was a coincidence, and the timing meant nothing.

Perhaps not.

There was an undeniable point of suspicion which came from the mode of death of the Laurent brothers—they both had been found dead at the bottom of a staircase which, presumably, they had either fallen—or been pushed—down.

Anders did not fancy himself a detective.

He, in the simplest terms, was a fact-finder. His job required that he find out certain information, present it to the Carringtons, and await their further instruction.

He should take the information to Blake.

He found it interesting that his instinct, usually unswaying and without falter, was not to do this.

Anders gathered the paper, carefully folded it, and tucked it under his arm as he left the kitchen.

_E.C._

“He’s no one.”

“No one?” Alexis echoed, “That’s interesting. According to what I’ve found on here-” She gave the phone a little shake, “he’s quite a bit more than that.”

Reid couldn’t help but narrow their eyes. “What do you know?”

“He seems to have quite a thriving little business going. Not exactly the most original, combining drug running with escorting services, but the way you’ve described it, he’s got an empire to rival-“

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My dear, I’m only quoting you.” She held up the phone again. “Seems like you could have gotten into business with him, made-well, I’m sure to _you_ it would have seemed like a lot of money. To me, of course, just a drop in the bucket-”

“Give that back.”

“You’ve got a compelling little case here, why didn’t you go through with it? Get cold feet?” She leaned forward, “Realize you were a fool not to get into the business?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Maybe I’ll go to this _Shark_ , get his thoughts on the matter. See how he feels about your threats.”

“You can’t.”

“Are you going to stop me?”

“He’s dead.”

It was Alexis’ turn to be shocked into momentary silence.

“I killed him.”

Reid didn’t know why they said it. They tried to keep their jaw clenched, keep the words from tumbling out.

Alexis’ eyes bugged.

“You-”

“Perhaps I should write in to correct the article.” Down the hall, Anders appeared. “They included a typo claiming it was an accident.”

Reid swallowed hard.

“I suppose that explains why they didn’t list his business.” He crossed the distance between them to stand next to Alexis, handing them the paper.

They looked down, wordless, at the article.

“I thought the name sounded familiar,” Anders continued, “Something about Tommy Laurent caught my attention. Normally I’ve a good memory for names and faces, it comes with the business.”

Alexis found her voice. “Our innocent little guest was planning to blackmail him.”

“That wouldn’t have been especially difficult, as I remember he wasn’t very good at covering his tracks. Quite an unearned bravado about him.”

Reid let the hand holding the newspaper fall to their side. It almost sounded as if-

“I believe you’ve more ties to the Carringtons than you realize,” Anders said, gravely. “If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Tommy Laurent was once an associate of Esther Carrington.”

**ACT FIVE**

As the man entered, he threw the door open with such force it slammed against the wall with an echoing _crack_.

“I don’t have the damn phone, but I don't-” he began, but stopped when the woman held up a hand.

“I know.”

His mouth snapped shut.

She stood, facing away from him, staring out a dingy window.

“That woman has it,” she continued.

“You mean to tell me,” There was a hard edge to his voice, “I nearly got myself killed shooting that place up for nothing?”

“I just found out. Regardless, you proved a necessary distraction.”

She offered nothing more.

He turned on his heel and strode a few paces away, toward the door. When she said nothing, he faced her.

“The fuck’d you call me here for, then? Just to gloat?”

“Macintosh is yours.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You’ve proven yourself useful. I no longer have need for you or the… _tool_. Take care of him.”

The man moved closer. “If you’re playing with me-”

“I know you want him, Shark. Kill him.” She turned to face the elder Laurent brother. “I’ll deal with the rest of them myself.”


	4. Bury the Hatchet

**CW for queer slurs, threat of non-con/rape**

**ACT ONE**

“You’re back.”

Sammy Jo flashed a smile around a mouthful of pastry. Fallon took a seat across from him and continued.

“You missed quite a show. There very nearly wasn’t a Carrington household to come back to.”

“Anders told me about all the excitement. Did they catch the guy?”

Fallon shook her head. “No, the crazed shooter remains at large. We’ll probably all be slaughtered in our beds, but that’s the least of our worries.”

“There’s something more worrying than that?”

“I guess Anders didn’t tell you about our crazed cousin’s attempts to bring down the Carrington empire, one brick at a time.”

“He may have mentioned it.” Sammy Jo reached for an apple from the bowl in the center of the table. “I just would’ve thought an active shooter would take the cake for ‘most worrying thing.’”

“You don’t have several million-dollar contracts on the line.”

“That’s true.”

Reid, chin down, trudged into the room and took the seat next to Sammy Jo. After a moment of glowering at the bowl of apples, they, seeming reluctant, took one.

There was a long pause.

“Good morning,” Sammy Jo said, pointedly.

Reid didn’t respond.

“Don’t take it personally,” Fallon said, sipping her coffee with an outstretched pinky. She gave Reid a fleeting, sidelong glance. “He’s just grumpy that my darling mother attempted to blackmail him.”

“Really?”

“It’s the Carrington way.” She shrugged. “Our way of showing hospitality.”

“Some good fucking hosts you are,” Reid retorted, eyes still aimed at the tableware.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Fallon managed to sound alarmingly like her mother, words dripping with scorn, “we’ve all got skeletons in our closet.”

Reid’s eyes snapped up, fist clenching in their lap. Just as quickly as the words were said, the topic changed.

“How was St. Barts, Sam?”

“Oh, the usual—sun, sands, beautiful asses.” Reid hadn’t imagined it possible for someone to look so bored while delivering that description, as casually as the weather on a particularly dreary day. “But,” his eyes lit up, “Steven called. And sent a photo.”

“So the prodigal son speaks,” Fallon quipped. “Did he take the photo with the day’s newspaper to prove he’s alive?”

She leaned forward to look at the screen of Sammy Jo’s proffered phone.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Sammy rebuked her. “He said things in Paraguay are going fine.”

“When’s he coming home?”

Even Reid, who had no clue what they were talking about, looked up, taken aback by the sharpness of her tone.

The sting wasn’t lost on Sammy, whose jaw twitched. “He said they keep running into problems with the local governments, if it weren’t for all the red tape he’d have been able to come visit. Or I could visit there—either way, he’s fine.”

He set his phone on the table next to his plate with enough force to send a shiver through the silverware. Reid glanced to the side.

“Oh,” they said, surprised. “You know Stuart?”

“Who?”

“Stuart,” Reid indicated the tanned, smiling figure in the picture.

“That’s Steven.”

At Reid’s silent confusion, Fallon and Sammy Jo spoke as one:

“My brother?”

“My fiancé?”

There a pause, just as uncomfortable as the previous, if not more so.

“You Carringtons are fucking everywhere, aren’t you. And you’re always lying.”

“How the hell do you know Steven?”

“ _Stuart_ used to come into the bar. We’d talk. He seemed nice.”

Sammy sent them a sharp look.

“Not that nice, don’t worry.”

“What was Steven doing at your seedy dive bar?” It was Reid’s turn to send a sharp look. “No offense.”

“Maybe he needed to get away from the gold-plated insanity you all call reality. Be among normal people for a while. If I’d known who he was, I wouldn’t’ve talked-”

Their sentence puttered out as a sudden thought occurred to them.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Sammy Jo was asking. “What was he doing there? Do you think he was seeing someone else? Why-”

“Relax, lover-boy,” Fallon interrupted. “You sound like a desperate teenager.”

“Did he ever say anything to you about Shark? A big thug?”

“Can’t say he did. I would hope he’d know to keep better company.” Fallon’s eyebrow raised. “Friend of yours?”

Reid fixed her with a long, unblinking look. “I guess Anders didn’t tell you who exactly my skeleton was.”

**ACT TWO**

Months before, in a hospital suite, the bravado in his voice had started to waver.

“The little fag knows too much,” Shark insisted, with as much emphasis as his neck brace allowed. He lay in a bed, head swaddled in bandages and one of his legs in a plaster cast. “He’ll go to the police, we gotta get rid of him before-”

“No.” The woman rose. As she spoke, she made a slow, deliberate path toward the door. “He’s exactly what we need. No one knows what happened to you, if he goes to the police he’ll have to admit to it.”

“I think the little fuck was planning to blackmail me.”

“He did a poor job of it. Even the most simpleminded of extortionists knows to keep their mark alive as long as possible.”

She’d reached the door. Glancing into the hallway and ensuring there was no one around, she locked it and turned back to face him.

A bead of sweat formed on the nape of his neck, beneath the brace, and dripped down to the top of his hospital gown in a slow, infuriating path he couldn’t brush away.

“You say he knows too much.” The woman took a step closer. “What does that mean? Does he know about us?...About our partnership?”

“How should I know? Alls I know is he wants to expose my business.”

“If anyone should know, it’s you.” She took another step. “So: would you say he knows? How well did you cover your tracks?”

“I-”

“Not very well, was it? I’d say-” another step closer, “if I were you, I wouldn’t be willing to take that risk. Because if he knows all about your side wheeling and dealing, then it’s not too much of a stretch to know about me. And if you’re brought down, well, then, it’s not too much of a stretch to see _me_ brought down, now is it?”

She was within arm’s length of the bed now.

“You never were good at keeping your mouth shut.”

“Listen, I covered my tracks. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but nobody knows about us working together. Nobody.”

“I see this as a perfect opportunity for a new business arrangement.” She ignored him. “My family has distanced themselves from me, so it won’t much matter if I’m drawn and quartered in the village square. No skin off their backs.

“So we need an in. Someone who knows too much about you, but not what to do with the information.”

“Macintosh?”

She was right next to the bed, hand casually resting on the IV stand, inches from the bag pumping fluids into his arm.

“Now can you think of any way to tie the two? Any link between Macintosh and my family?”

His eyes flicked to her hand, then back to meet her gaze.

“I…”

“Come on,” she coaxed. “Think.”

Suddenly it hit him. “The-the kid. The boy, the Carrington boy. One of my men saw him hanging around the bar, saw him and Macintosh talking.”

“And what, I wonder, were they talking about?”

He swallowed hard. “I dunno.”

“Do you think, perhaps, they were speaking about you? About your deals, your far from honest work?”

Despite the circumstance, he was still unwilling to admit he’d been careless. “Maybe.”

“About your threatening bartenders to sell themselves to fuel your drug business? About us working together?”

“I only approached him once or twice, if I’d known he-”

“You should’ve known.” Her hand twitched down to run a finger along the IV. “You should’ve covered your tracks and kept your mouth shut.”

“Carrington, I-”

“But I believe I can fix your past fuck-ups. Tie Macintosh and the Carrington name up in a neat little bow and bury them both.” Her hand returned to its place atop the IV stand, and the man let out the breath he’d been holding. “And you’re going to help me.”

**ACT THREE**

Liars. Liars, all of them.

You should’ve known, Reid, you should’ve done your homework, asked around. Saw if anybody recognized the Carrington kid.

They swore aloud, eliciting a surprised look from a passing maid.

Ignoring it, Reid ducked outside. They walked blindly, heading anywhere and nowhere. Stomping across the grounds of the estate, cursing themself.

Wouldn’t’ve been so chummy if I’d known—wouldn’t’ve told him about Shark. What if he went to Blake Carrington about it?

They’d asked him not to, told him to drop it. But if she’d learned anything about the fucking Carringtons it’s that they never listened to anyone but themselves.

“It’s a wonder he didn’t bring the whole bar down around our ears,” Ried spat.

They’d reached the line of trees around the pond. They stood, fists clenched, fighting the urge to direct their rage at one of the splintery trunks.

They weren’t sure whom exactly they were mad at.

At Stuart-no, _Steven_ , for lying about his identity? At the Carringtons, with their holier-than-thou attitudes, owning half the city and paying off the rest? At Shark, scum of the earth that he was?

At themself, for being too trusting, too naive, for getting in too deep and not running when they had the chance?

“They could’ve,” a voice said, “if they’d known.”

That voice.

It sent the hairs on Reid’s neck on end. No—no, it couldn’t be.

“But they didn’t know. They think they own everything. That their money will keep them safe.”

Reid urged their frozen legs into motion, turning, pressing against the tree trunk at their back. “ _No._ ”

Shark, arms outstretched, stood before them. Lips spread wide, revealing glistening white teeth.

“I killed you.” Reid was once again frozen in place. It was all they could do not to crumple to the ground. “I killed you.”

“You nearly fucking did, kid.”

Shark moved forward and Reid stumbled away from the tree, walking backwards, feeling blindly for a weapon and getting a gut-churning flash of déjà vu.

The man let out a sharp, cruel bark of laughter.

“You should’ve known better, checked for a pulse before you left me there. Did you hear my neck break? I did, sharp as a dry twig in the forest.” He still moved forward, unrelenting. “I still hear it. You know what that’s like? Know what it’s like to think you’re dead?”

Reid couldn’t raise their voice to shout—who was around to hear? If they did, who would help?

“She helped me, saved me. I did all her dirty work, planted you here to rile the Carringtons up. Get them good ‘n’ scared. And in return, I get _you_.”

Reid was trembling so violently they thought their legs would give way. Each step took them closer to the pond, offering fewer ways to run, fewer paths of escape.

They scooped up a rock from the ground, arm arched back. “Don’t come any closer.”

He didn’t pause, continued forward. Quicker now.

Reid let the rock fly. It struck true, right between Shark’s eyes. A trickle of blood ran down his nose. His approach didn’t falter. If anything, his grin widened.

“ _Come to daddy_.”

A gunshot.

Reid let out a startled, wordless yell.

Shark looked just as surprised. He took a few stumbling steps, then fell gracelessly to the ground.

The shot still ringing in their ears, Reid looked to its source.

“Petunia, what-?”

**ACT FOUR**

“I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t satisfying.”

A heavy silence fell.

The woman lowered the gun with an almost dreamy smile.

“Of course he was useful, but a blade can only last for so long before dulling.” She turned her attention to Reid, who stood, staring, mouth slightly open.

“Come on, Macintosh, you knew enough about Shark to make him intent on killing you. Do you really not know who I am?”

“You’re Esther Carrington.”

“The shunned cousin,” Carrington gave a tight smile. “The family tried to bury me, but, alas, they dug too shallow of a grave.”

“What the hell do you want with me?” Reid found their voice, anger welling up and drowning their fear. “Why’d you dump me here?”

“It would’ve been easy to bury Shark,” she said. “Lord knows he never covered his tracks. And I have no doubt if he went down, he would sing like a meadowlark about our association. It wasn’t a frequent collaboration, you understand, just an occasional uniting of interests. He needed an opening in a market I controlled, I needed someone…taken care of. A fair exchange. A simple little arrangement.”

“And you betrayed him.” Reid focused their eyes forward, keeping their face even. Inside they were wracking their brain, trying to remember just how far the stretch of trees went before the pond began. _Maybe they could make a run for it._ “Doesn’t sound very fair to me.”

“Like you’ll be weeping at his funeral.” Esther scoffed. “You’re just as glad that he’s dead as I am.”

Reid swallowed. “Maybe so.”

“Shark was an unimportant thug. A means to an end. He got you here, you did the rest.”

“I didn’t-”

“No, no, Macintosh, of course you didn’t _know_ what you were doing. All you had to do was stumble around, dazed and confused. Act the pathetic little freak you are. Of course, you’d inevitably let it slip you killed Shark. The rest would puzzle it out from there.”

Reid couldn’t take any more and wheeled around, making it two bounding steps before Carrington’s voice rang out behind them.

“Stop.”

Diving behind a tree would only save them for a moment. They hadn’t made it close enough to make for the relative safety of the pond—they weren’t exactly sure what their plan was on that front, they’d have to come up for air at some point. They were far too far from the house.

“Turn around, hands up.” Reid could tell without turning that the barrel of the gun was trained on the back of their head. “Unless you want to see what your brain looks like spattered against a tree.”

“Listen, I played my part. Why won’t you fucking let me go? You don’t need me anymore.”

“Because I don’t need you anymore.” Petunia parroted. “I’m not a fool, Macintosh, your first stop would be the police. You’d be fessing up to a murder in the process, and the thought of you rotting in a cell does, admittedly, bring me some pleasure. But not enough to warrant sparing you.”

“What’s going on here?”

Blake Carrington’s voice carried through the trees. Reid, hands still raised, dared to peer over Esther’s shoulder at the approaching group. Cristal and Anders weren’t far behind.

Esther turned to meet his eyes, the gun still trained on Reid. “Hello, Blake.”

“Petunia? What’s the meaning of this?”

Esther Carrington sneered. “So quickly you forget me, cousin?”

With her free hand, she reached and began to tug at the corner of her jaw. To Reid’s horror, her skin began to peel free. It took a moment for them to understand what was happening.

The prosthetics were slight, but effective. They dulled her cheekbones, rounded out her jaw, softened her chin.

“You.” For all his attempts at a poker face, Blake let the shock slip into his tone. “How dare you set foot on this property.”

“Oh, be nice, Blake. Can’t a cousin come to visit her family homestead?”

“This is not your family. You’re no Carrington.” His fists clenched. “Get the hell off my land.”

“Our name is red with the blood we’ve spilled, Blake. Do you think about that, tucked into your sheets at night? Next to your wife, whichever whore of the month wears the title?”

“You think you can launch some moral crusade? Did you forget why we forced you out? Years of using company money to fund your dealers and hitmen, years of dirty money with which you sullied our name.”

“Oh, but that’s where we differ, Blake. I wear these bloodstains as a badge of pride. I took to get where I am. Of course I spilled blood, I freely admit to it.” She gave a slight wave of the hand to the body of Shark, lying a few feet away in the grass. “You put the gun in someone else’s hand and think that frees you of guilt when another finger pulls the trigger.

“The Carrington name, dear cousin, is nothing. A relic of a long-gone past when our family was untouchable. You still hold on to this delusion, thinking you’re above it all. When something so simple, someone so _stupid-_ ” This was cast sideways, in Reid’s direction, “could destroy you without even realizing it. When even your own son can be so easily used against you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Steven came to the bar,” Reid blurted out. “He knew about Shark, he-”

“This is exactly what I mean.” Esther’s finger tightened on the trigger, and Reid’s sentence died in their throat. “You’re so quick to sing, you don’t think of the consequences.”

“Why did you come here?” Cristal’s voice sounded from behind Blake. Anders quickly placed a hand on her arm, silently urging her into silence.

“Don’t worry, dear, I didn’t come to kill you. How _heartless_ would it be for a family to turn on one of its own.” She let the words hang in the air.

After a moment, she lowered the gun.

“I believe we can come to an understanding. You’ve bought allies in high places.” She gave a thin smile. “As have I. I’ve fed some of them some very interesting information. Information tying your black sheep of a son to the illicit markets of the elder Laurent brother. As poor Shark here—rest his soul— won’t be around to confirm or deny the reports, well, they’ll be taken as true, won’t they?

“And my sources have it on good authority that dear Steven was working under dear old Dad’s authority. This will remain our little secret, so long as we all keep up our ends of the bargain.”

“What bargain?”

Reid’s eyes flicked from Esther to Blake as the latter spoke, and they noticed, dimly, that Anders was no longer standing behind Blake.

“To keep calm and carry on, as it were. I’ll continue my work, you continue yours. If you go to the authorities, the information about dear Steven will be leaked and the Carrington name will be embroiled in scandal.”

“We’ll take you down with us.”

“A risk I’m willing to take.” Esther continued, “If our friend Mr. Macintosh goes to the authorities, he’ll be admitting to murder—Shark’s been dead for months, remember. And, again, everything will tie back to Steven, and to you. I believe you understand my terms…?”

“This won’t work.”

“Blake, you should understand better than anyone that a Carrington is always, first and foremost, a Carrington. A scheming, self-protecting devil, or so the tabloids would have you believe. If you try to destroy me, you will ruin yourself in the process.

“So you have to ask: which is more important, your family or-”

**ACT FIVE**

It took Reid’s head, muddled by the sound, several moments to clear.

Esther Carrington lay, twitching on the ground. Her left hand was a mess of blood and bone, the gun, knocked free, laying near the body of Shark.

There was another hole, like a third eye on her forehead, oozing a thin stream of blood.

“Oh my god,” Cristal managed.

Anders, looking grim, stepped from behind a tree and holstered his gun.

“Sometimes one has to bury the problem before it gets out of hand,” he said.

“Do you think she really-I mean, about Steven, did she-”

Blake didn’t reply, jaw clenching and unclenching as he surveyed the scene.

“She did.” Reid answered for him. “If I know anything about you ruthless fucking Carringtons, it’s that she did.”

“Macintosh,” Blake’s voice was low, with a hard bite behind the words, “why don’t we keep this between us.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Shall I bring up the checkbook?” Anders’ question was quiet, though not enough that it passed out of Reid’s hearing.

“Keep your blood money. I don’t want it.”

They trudged a few steps toward the house, pausing only to turn and mutter, “Just keep it.”

The death of Esther Carrington isn’t mentioned in the papers. Neither is the miraculous resurrection and subsequent second death of Tommy Laurent. Both are buried, without ceremony, in a cemetery outside of county lines.

Business deals with once-hesitant allies of Atlantix are restored, footnotes of Eidolon Corp. quickly buried and forcibly forgotten, as with the memory of its spurned leader.

Within days, life in the Carrington household returns to the chaos so characteristic of its residence. As if nothing had happened.

The memory of Reid Macintosh’s brief and eventful stay at the Carrington house was just as thoroughly buried.

It hadn’t been hard for them to leave the city. There wasn’t anything left for them there. Esther Carrington had set out to destroy their life, to urge them into action.

While the desired action had been avoided, they had been well and truly driven out.

So it seemed Esther Carrington had, in a way, won. Even dead and buried, her ghost lingered on.

It's true, what they say about family ghosts--they never quite disappear.


End file.
